


100 to 1

by thewordweaver



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst, Chronic Illness, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hurt, M/M, POV First Person, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 11:42:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8326594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewordweaver/pseuds/thewordweaver
Summary: And it was in all those little ways that I'd loved you.





	1. countdown

**Author's Note:**

> hiya hello just reposting things that I had deleted from my old old very old asianfanfics account lmao  
> I am very much not really in the kpop scene anymore so these are just here for the sake of being here
> 
> UGH AO3 CAN'T DO THE GRADIENT THING SO THE IMPACT OF THE FIRST CHAPTER IS REDUCED ;;;;;;;  
> if you wanna see how it's originally formatted, please go [here](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B4TwXJLNkyDcSHdSUG9ZaEJZZ0E/view?usp=sharing)
> 
> date originally posted on aff.com: early 2014  
> {the a/n at the end of the work is from then as well}
> 
> in memoria

**_One hundred._ **   
The number of lifetimes I could live, and I would still choose this one.

Ninety-nine.   
The number of roses you gave me on Valentine's Day as a "joke."   
(It wasn't really a joke then, was it?)

Ninety-eight.   
The number of times you insisted to the others that they were the fulfillment of a dare.   
(When pressed for details, you were rather vague...)

Ninety-seven.   
The number of hours I spent thinking about what those roses really meant.   
(Your insistence about how they meant nothing didn't help.)

Ninety-six.   
The number of days after Valentine's Day I waited for you to confess.

Ninety-five.   
The number of minutes we spent talking on the phone until you came clean.

Ninety-four.   
The number of days we were able to keep it a secret.   
(Jongdae really doesn't know how to keep a secret, does he?)

Ninety-three.   
The days of summer we had to spend together.

Ninety-two.   
The number of minutes it took to drive from your university to mine.

Ninety-one.   
The miles your speedometer racked up every time you made the drive.

Ninety.   
The number of minutes our morning classes were that second year.   
Mine was Philosophy and yours was a Biology lecture.

**_Eighty-nine._ **   
The number of hours you went without talking to me after I finally found the courage to tell you.   
(I wish I had told you sooner.)

Eighty-eight.   
The minutes I stayed silent as you expressed your anger and distress.   
The only thing I could do was apologize.

Eighty-seven.   
The hours you stayed after the first chemo treatment.   
(I still can't help but feel guilty about how I made you miss that test.)

Eighty-six.   
The number of tears that fell from my eyes when my hair began to fall out.   
(You reassured me that it would come back.   
I didn't believe you.)

Eighty-five.   
The number of minutes I spent sobbing into your shirt after I had gotten it all cut off.   
(Well, cutting off all of yours  _ did _  certainly get me to stop.)

Eighty-four.   
The number of calls and texts I had from you when I finally turned my phone on again.   
(Could you blame me for not wanting to talk to anyone for a few days?)

Eighty-three.   
The percentage my grades fell to when I started skipping classes.   
You promptly saw to it that that wouldn't last.

Eighty-two.   
The days you called to make sure I didn't succumb to my depression.

Eighty-one.   
The number of times you had to give me incentives so I would stay productive.   
(I didn't think a body could be such a motivating factor.)

Eighty.   
The total number of hours you had spent driving just to see me that semester.

Seventy-nine.   
The number of things you told me I still had to live for when I felt like giving up.

Seventy-eight.   
The number of times you had to tell me I was still beautiful.   
(There were a few times you even demonstrated for me.)

Seventy-seven.   
The minutes each treatment lasted.   
(You were there to rub my back every time I threw up afterward.)

Seventy-six.   
The number of times I gripped your hand as they did blood work.   
(Even you cringed every time they needle pierced my skin.)

Seventy-five.   
The anniversary of the restaurant you took me to for our first.

Seventy-four.   
The number of times you told me I would get through this.   
(It was because of you that I lived past the estimate they gave me.)

Seventy-three.   
The number of weekly chemotherapy treatments I had to go to.   
(And you were there to hold my hand through every single one of them.)

Seventy-two.   
The number of day trips we went on after almost every session.

**_Seventy-one._ **   
The number of days it took for my hair to grow back.   
(I can still remember the way you ran your fingers through it.   
It was the progress we had hoped for.)

Seventy.   
The number of minutes we spent at our favorite park.   
(You wouldn't let me stay in the rain because you knew my health was fragile.)

Sixty-nine.   
The number of people we waited with in that hole-in-the-wall cafe as we waited for the rain to die down.

Sixty-eight.   
The number of minutes you serenaded me for during that rainy afternoon.   
(I'd almost forgotten you were a guitarist.)

**_Sixty-seven._ **   
The number of days after my last session before we decided to live together.   
(You transferred colleges without telling me.)

Sixty-six.   
The times it took me to wake up and finally get over the fact that you were actually living with me.

Sixty-five.   
The minutes I discovered you liked to take in the bathroom every morning.   
(You were usually to blame for my tardiness to my first class.)

Sixty-four.   
The number of times you waited for me after my last class of the day.

Sixty-three.   
The number of steps it took to walk from the parking lot to our apartment door.   
(And we would walk sixty-three more when we stumbled around the furniture.)

Sixty-two.   
The number of kisses you gave me that night.

Sixty-one.   
Your favorite number.   
(You said that the extra one could mean anything and everything someday.)

Sixty.   
The number of seconds in a minute, and minutes in an hour.   
(It's amazing how much more that number means to you when your supply of them is limited.   
Turns out that that extra one really did mean a lot.)

Fifty-nine.   
The number of minutes the digital clock read when I rolled over and found your body next to mine.

Fifty-eight.   
The seconds I had spent just listening to your breathing before you woke up.

Fifty-seven.   
The number of minutes after breakfast I went hiding the pain I was in from you.   
(But you had always been more observant than I thought.)

Fifty-six.   
The number of times you shouted my name when I fainted.

Fifty-five.   
The number of hours you had spent waiting in the hospital just to see me.

Fifty-four.   
The number of minutes we sat in silence as we drove home from the hospital.

**_Fifty-three._ **   
The number the minute hand was on when we got the call.

Fifty-two.   
The number of times I heard you punch the bathroom door after you locked yourself inside.

Fifty-one.   
The number of seconds either of us could go without breaking down again.

Fifty.   
The weeks we had lived in pure bliss, ignorant to what would come.

Forty-nine.   
The number of minutes we spent crying together before my readmittance to the hospital.

Forty-eight.   
The number of hours you spent in my hospital room after the surgery.   
(You put up quite the fight when they forced you to leave for a day.)

Forty-seven.   
The number of cards you read to me when I was too weak to bother reading them myself.

Forty-six.   
The number of times I groaned when you forced me to get out of bed.

Forty-five.   
The minutes each new session would last.   
There wasn't a minute that went by in which you weren't there.

Forty-four.   
The number of days I spent in the hospital until I was discharged.   
(You were quick to wheel me out of there.)

Forty-three.   
The number of people you managed to get to come to the party.   
(Despite my insisting there was no need for a celebration.)

**_Forty-two._ **   
The days I was in remission for until I knew something was wrong.   
(And you were quick to notice it as well.)

Forty-one.   
The number of times I had to insist that I wasn't hungry every day.   
(I could see the concern in your creased brow.)

Forty.   
The number of hours I went hiding my symptoms from you.   
(I didn't want you to worry.   
I wanted to convince the both of us that I was getting better.   
That backfired.)

Thirty-nine.   
The times I screamed in pain.   
(The hurt I could see in your eyes felt even worse.   
I knew then that you figured out I had been hiding this from you.   
Again.)

Thirty-eight.   
The number of minutes I spent in the bathroom dry-heaving, producing blood every so often.   
(I could hear your frantic call to the hospital on the other side of the door.)

Thirty-seven.   
The number of hours you spent pacing around the waiting room.

Thirty-six.   
The number of swears you hissed at me, the tears welling in your eyes.

Thirty-five.   
The number of apologies I choked.   
We both knew that nothing I could say would make this any better.

Thirty-four.   
The number of calls we received once everyone heard the news.   
(Something your parents said made you leave the room.   
I didn't see you for two days after that.)

Thirty-three.   
The hours it took me to accept what was happening.   
(But you were still in denial.   
After all, it was your blind hope that had gotten me this far.)

Thirty-two.   
The number of minutes we argued for when I told you I wanted to sign a DNR form.

Thirty-one.   
The number of minutes it took for the doctor to explain my diagnosis.   
(He could tell we had been through this two too many times before.)

**_Thirty._ **   
The number of days it was estimated I had left with you.

Twenty-nine.   
The number of times you reminded me that I had lived past my expectations before.

Twenty-eight.   
The total number of hours I spent working on making my will.   
(You wanted no part in helping me write it.)

Twenty-seven.   
The number of days it took for my hair to start falling out from the chemo treatments.   
(The way you looked at me then...   
I wanted to live my entire life without ever seeing that look.)

Twenty-six.   
The number of times I had to ask you to take me to our favorite park.

Twenty-five.   
The number of minutes I was outside for before the last thing I could remember was your scream and the screech of a car.

**_Twenty-four._ **   
The number of hours my life was shortened to.   
(You balked when the doctors offered to cut off the machines.)

Twenty-three.   
The number of years we had lived without the thought of goodbyes ever crossing our minds.

Twenty-two.   
The number of times you refused to go to sleep, even though you had been up for hours.

Twenty-one.   
The minutes you could bear to listen to my parents and me talk about my funeral preparations.   
(You had to step out of the room until I signaled it was over.)

Twenty.   
The number of hours we stayed up together;   
I was in pain, you were in despair.

Nineteen.   
The number of revisions I made to my will.   
(You reluctantly agreed to help.)

Eighteen.   
The number of choked sobs I heard you make.   
(I knew you were fighting back tears.)

Seventeen.   
The times I managed to get us both to laugh despite the situation.   
(I wanted to hear that more than I wanted to hear your suppressed cries.)

Sixteen.   
The number of times you scrambled for a nurse whenever I closed my eyes for more than two seconds.

**_Fifteen._ **   
The age we were when we first met.   
(Do you remember it well?   
I do.)

Fourteen.   
The number of memories we reminisced over.

Thirteen.   
The number of times I watched you start to nod off before suggesting you take a short nap.

Twelve.   
The minutes you had slept for until you woke up in a panic from the beeping.

**_Eleven._ **   
The number the hour hand was on when my heart rate began to drop.

Ten.   
The number of your warm fingers clasped around my fragile, frigid hand.

Nine.   
The number of minutes it took for you to finally accept what was happening.

Eight.   
The number of years my life had been brightened by your wide smile.

Seven.   
The number of kisses I felt you press upon my skin.

Six.   
The number of times you ran your fingers over my brow to uncrease it.   
(You wouldn't let me die with such a sour expression on my face.)

Five.   
The number of tears that fell from your cheeks and onto mine.

Four.   
The number of years I was able to kiss your lips.

_ Three. _   
The number of words that left my mouth.

_ Two. _   
The number of words I could hear you whisper.

_ One. _   
The last breath I took.

~~_ And it was in all those little ways that I'd loved you. _ ~~


	2. mirror

**_One hundred._ **   
"Even if I lived a hundred different lives one hundred different times, I would still choose you.   
I would always choose you."

Ninety-nine.   
"It's just a joke, okay?   
Don't take this seriously."

Ninety-eight.   
"It was a dare!   
I wasn't gonna just back out!   
... Does it matter who it was?"

Ninety-seven.   
"They don't mean anything, Baek.   
Honestly."

Ninety-six.   
"... Can ...   
Can we talk?"

Ninety-five.   
"So...   
I lied about the roses not meaning anything."

Ninety-four.   
"Well now that Jongdae let the cat out of the bag...   
Yes, we're dating."

Ninety-three.   
"Three months of summer!   
... Give me those!   
I can't believe you're actually still thinking about studying!"

Ninety-two.   
"It's only an hour and a half.   
Relax."

Ninety-one.   
"You're lucky my car has good gas mileage.   
No, I don't want any gas money.   
Your smile is payment enough."

Ninety.   
"I hate prereqs."

**_Eighty-nine._ **   
"... And it's now that you finally decide to tell me!?   
Don't...   
Just...   
I don't want to...   
I'm hanging up."

Eighty-eight.   
"Why couldn't you have told me from the start!?   
Did you not think that I would care!?   
... Don't you trust me?"

Eighty-seven.   
"I can make up the test.   
You're more important right now."

Eighty-six.   
"It'll grow back, Baek.   
You just have to get through this first.   
It won't be gone forever."

Eighty-five.   
"It's okay.   
It'll be okay.   
Look, watch this."

Eighty-four.   
"Baek, when you hear this voicemail, please call me back.   
You can't go through this alone.   
Please talk to me."

Eighty-three.   
"You were on my ass when I fell to an eighty-seven!   
There's no way I'm gonna allow that, cancer or not."

Eighty-two.   
"Hey, what are you up to?"

Eighty-one.   
"Remember, if you finish writing that paper, I'll—   
... Yes, really.   
Tongue and all."

Eighty.   
"Don't tell me you actually did the math."

Seventy-nine.   
"You still want to travel, don't you?   
You won't go anywhere if you stop trying.   
And...   
And you can't just leave me all alone.   
Who else would I be able to tease about the tubes of eyeliner they've accumulated?"

Seventy-eight.   
"Your beauty is unchanged.   
Did I ever once express disgust over your lack of hair?   
... Your thinness just means I need to love you even more or you'll vanish before my eyes."

Seventy-seven.   
"I'll go get you some Tums."

Seventy-six.   
"Just grab my hand as tight as you need to.   
And try not to tense the other arm."

Seventy-five.   
"I hope one day, we can celebrate our seventy-fifth together."

Seventy-four.   
"You'll make it through, Baek.   
You've already made it past your estimate."

Seventy-three.   
"They said this could be your last one.   
You're welcome, you know.   
... What do you mean 'for what?'   
Are you forgetting who was here for every single one of them?"

Seventy-two.   
"Let's go to the beach today."

**_Seventy-one._ **   
"It's back!   
I'm glad.   
A healthy head of hair is a good sign."

Seventy.   
"I promise I'll do it someday, okay?   
I can't do it now.   
You'll get sick easy.   
It's cold and do you see how hard it's coming down?"

Sixty-nine.   
"Do you want something while we're here?"

Sixty-eight.   
" _ Love of mine/ _   
_ Someday you will die... _ "

**_Sixty-seven._ **   
"What if...   
I moved in with you?   
... Oh, that?   
Heh, well, uh...   
I actually transferred...   
About a week ago."

Sixty-six.   
"Ugh, just let me sleep for five more minutes..."

Sixty-five.   
"Five more minutes, I promise!"

Sixty-four.   
"So how was your day?"

Sixty-three.   
"Hold on...   
The keys...   
_ Ah _ , wait!"

Sixty-two.   
"You talk too much.   
I'll fix that."

Sixty-one.   
"Because you'll never really know how much that extra one could mean."

Sixty.   
"There's never enough time."

Fifty-nine.   
"..."

Fifty-eight.   
"Good morning."

Fifty-seven.   
"Baek, are you—"

Fifty-six.   
"Baekhyun!   
_ Baekhyun! _   
**_Baekhyun, please!_ ** "

Fifty-five.   
"How much longer...?"

Fifty-four.   
"..."

**_Fifty-three._ **   
"Don't... don't tell me."

Fifty-two.   
"Why!?"

Fifty-one.   
"I'm just...   
I'm so afraid of losing you."

Fifty.   
"Just when we thought everything would be okay."

Forty-nine.   
"You have to make it through.   
You have to."

Forty-eight.   
"I can't leave him!   
What if something happens!?   
I have to stay here!"

Forty-seven.   
"This one's from Jongin and Kyungsoo."

Forty-six.   
"You can't just waste away in that bed."

Forty-five.   
"I'm right here, okay?"

Forty-four.   
"Let's get out of here before they decide to keep you here forever."

Forty-three.   
"Why not?   
You're getting better!   
Of course it's a means for celebration!"

**_Forty-two._ **   
"Are you sure you're okay?"

Forty-one.   
"But you haven't touched anything on your plate..."

Forty.   
"Well, okay...   
I'll be outside if you need me."

Thirty-nine.   
"Baek!?"

Thirty-eight.   
"He's...   
He's throwing up blood.   
His sclera is looking yellow.   
Please hurry."

Thirty-seven.   
"Here I am.   
Again."

Thirty-six.   
"What the  _ fuck _ , Baekhyun?   
Am I  _ that _  shitty of a boyfriend that you can't fucking tell me when you're fucking relapsing?"

Thirty-five.   
"... I'm sorry too."

Thirty-four.   
"That... !   
He's not—how could you guys even say that!?   
... I'll...   
I'll be back, Baek."

Thirty-three.   
"You're not dying, Baek.   
Stop saying that.   
You've beaten it before.   
You can do it again."

Thirty-two.   
"Why would you want to do that!?   
Do you seriously want to give up that badly!?"

Thirty-one.   
"Mmhm.   
Yeah, they told us that last time..."

**_Thirty._ **   
"You have a month to fight it.   
You've done it before.   
This can't be the end."

Twenty-nine.   
"I've said it before and I'll say it again."

Twenty-eight.   
"I don't want to hear it.   
If you need to say parts of it aloud, I’ll be in the other room.   
Call your parents if you need help."

Twenty-seven.   
"It's...   
It's gone again."

Twenty-six.   
" _ Okay! _   
Okay."

Twenty-five.   
"Baekhyun!   
No!"

**_Twenty-four._ **   
"How  _ dare _  you even suggest that!"

Twenty-three.   
"Please don't let this be goodbye.   
We have our whole life ahead of us."

Twenty-two.   
"I'm fine, I'm fine."

Twenty-one.   
"I...   
I can't...   
I'll be outside."

Twenty.   
"I couldn't sleep even if I wanted to.   
Not restfully, anyway."

Nineteen.   
"Alright, I'll read it and you can tell me what you want to change.   
I know you can't hold a pen now anyway."

Eighteen.   
"I'm...   
I'm fine.   
Don't worry about me."

Seventeen.   
"Haha, yeah.   
Let's hope he's not still bitter about that."

Sixteen.   
"... Nurse!   
_ Nurse! _ "

**_Fifteen._ **   
"I'm sorry I was such a jerk to you when we first met.   
If I could do it over, I would.   
But would you still love me the same?   
It would be different, wouldn't it?"

Fourteen.   
"Wow, I almost forgot about that one."

Thirteen.   
"Okay, but it'll be  _ really _  short.   
No more than fifteen minutes.   
Don't let me sleep past that."

Twelve.   
"What?   
... No.   
No, no, no!"

**_Eleven._ **   
"Baekhyun!   
Baekhyun, please!   
Stay with me!"

Ten.   
"Can you feel that!?   
Tell me you can feel it!   
You should be whining by now;   
I'm practically crushing your hand!"

Nine.   
"You're...   
This is really it."

Eight.   
"Eight...   
We only had eight years together.   
We had so many more ahead of us.   
Not even a decade..."

Seven.   
"You can still feel those at least, right?"

Six.   
"I don't want that face to be the last one I remember."

Five.   
"I’m sorry...   
My tears...   
I just..."

Four.   
"And there were so many other things I wanted to do with you.   
Not just as my friend.   
I never got to kiss you in the rain like you wanted."

_ Three. _   
"I love you too.   
I love you so much that it hurts.   
Please don't leave me."

_ Two. _   
"... Goodbye, Baekhyun."

_ One. _   
"This won't be the last time.   
I'll see you again.   
I'm sure of it."

**"And it was in all those little ways that I'd loved you."**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the type of cancer Baek had was pancreatic cancer. the way he got it was through family genetics, though that's clearly not specified in the story. it's rare for that type of cancer to show up in anyone under the age of forty but look it's my story and I do what I want ok  
> the symptoms of this type of cancer can include:
> 
> \- pain in upper abdomen that moves onto the back  
> \- poor appetite + nausea + vomiting  
> \- clinical depression  
> \- painless jaundice
> 
> the symptoms usually don't show up all that early, so by the time someone discovers they have it, the disease is already so far along that the prognosis is super low. for all stages of it, the survival rate past one year is 25%, and the five-year survival rate is about 5 - 6%. essentially there was no way he was going to live.
> 
> to help alleviate some of the cancer {even though it's anticipated that the patient won't live that long}, they operate on the pancreas, though this option is usually only used when the cancer is localised. 
> 
> also, to test how the radiation treatments are affecting a patient with cancer, they often do bloodwork, and if your blood levels aren't looking so good, they'll cancel {after all, they're not trying to speed up the process of deterioration). the session of these radiation treatments can last anywhere from four hours to half an hour, and it's usually recommended that you have someone to accompany you. support helps.
> 
> one last thing: a DNR form is a "Do Not Resuscitate" form. if one signs it while they are still of conscious and clear mind, most countries will honor this and will not make any attempt to bring you back to life should your heart fail, your brain die, etc etc.
> 
> essentially Baek made the choice that he didn't want either of them to suffer anymore and he wanted to die already, especially since he knew he was going to die either way.

**Author's Note:**

> again.  
> yes, again.  
> I have once again lost someone to a car accident.  
> jesus fucking christ can people watch what they're doing on the road.  
> edit: to clarify, my grandfather had throat and lung cancer. we were so very certain we were gonna lose him to that, but it wouldn't be for a few more years, since he was going through chemotreatments, though the cancer had come along very far. on top of that, he had Alzheimer's, so we knew we would be losing him eventually.  
> ... and then this happened.
> 
> Those three years I went without having talked to you, and now I have to live a lifetime of regret.  
> Rest in peace and I'm sorry, Grandpa.
> 
>  
> 
> [personal twitter](http://www.twitter.com/lesimperatrices)  
> 


End file.
